December 02, 2004 - 1:13 p.m.
clouds swoon, faintly deflating
across the bright face of the moon.
mincing like drunken peacocks
proud fan vanishing in smoke
the solitary eye fixes you,
brings you out of being,
unmakes you
like a phoenix in rewind.
Replaced by the bulb of day
darker images adorn the trees,
developing in this grey light,
hung with a thousand still forms
crisp birch babies, strung
like beans
from limbs that droop.
displaying their dead bodies,
dried up, barren
cocoons-
black against the light that shines elsewhere.
Between the glass and I
wind hits but does not move-
you, cable knits hold us close
but fingers snatch a shiver
still
from skin wrapt yet ripe
for undoing.
orange, like my eyes, full on
light is my
complimentary colour
imagining a world half a world away
where fruits hang heavy
but you cannot drink the water.
